During most of the journey Katherine Earle sat back in her corner of the first-class compartment, and gazed silently out of the flying windows. She seemed too deeply impressed with the beauty of the scene to care for conversation even with the man she was to marry. At last they stopped at a pretty little rural station, with the name of the place done in flowers of vivid colour that stood out against the brown of the earth around, them and the green turf which formed the sloping bank. “Now,” said George, as they stood on the platform, “whither away? Which direction?” “I want to see,” said she, “a real, genuine, old English country home.” “A castle?” “No, not a castle.” “Oh, I know what you want. Something like Haddon Hall, or that sort of thing. An old manor house. Well, wait a minute, and I’ll talk to the station master, and find out all there is about this part of the country.” And before she could stop him, he had gone to make his inquiry of that official. Shortly after he came back with a list of places that were worth seeing, which he named. “Holmwood House,” she repeated. “Let us see that. How far is it?” George again made inquiries, and found that it was about eight miles away. The station-master assured him that the road thither was one of the prettiest drives in the whole country. “Now, what kind of a conveyance will you have? There are four-wheeled cabs, and there is even a hansom to be had. Will you have two horses or one, and will you have a coachman?” “None of these,” she said, “if you can get something you can drive yourself—I suppose you are a driver?” “Oh, I have driven a buggy.” “Well, get some sort of conveyance that we can both sit in while you drive.” “But don’t you think we will get lost?” “We can inquire the way,” she said, “and if we do get lost, it won’t matter. I want to have a long talk with you before we reach the place.” They crossed the railway by a bridge over the line, and descended into a valley along which the road wound. The outfit which George had secured was a neat little cart made of wood in the natural colour and varnished, and a trim little pony, which looked ridiculously small for two grown people, and yet was, as George afterwards said, “as tough as a pine knot.” The pony trotted merrily along, and needed no urging. George doubtless was a good driver, but whatever talents he had in that line were not brought into play. The pony was a treasure that had apparently no bad qualities. For a long time the two in the cart rode along the smooth highway silently, until at last Morris broke out with— “Oh, see here! This is not according to contract. You said you wanted a long talk, and now you are complacently saying nothing.” “I do not know exactly how to begin.” “Is it so serious as all that?” “It is not serious exactly—it is merely, as it were, a continuation of the confession.” “I thought we were through with that long ago. Are there any more horrible revelations?”